Ruthless (7 page)

The property was bigger than it looked from the outside. ‘We’d better go through to the back,’ Judith Kavanagh said. They passed a residents’ lounge, dining room and kitchen and then went through a door marked private and into what served as her own living room. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said once they’d sat down. A slight Welsh lilt in her accent.

‘No, thank you,’ said Janet. ‘Can I just check, you are married to Richard Kavanagh?’

‘Yes. Why?’ Worry was creeping into her expression.

‘I’m sorry, I need to check a few more details,’ Janet said. ‘You married on the twenty-third of April 1972?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you please give me your date of birth.’

She did and Janet noted it. ‘And this is your usual address?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And your husband lives here?’

‘No, we’re separated,’ she said.

That makes things slightly easier
, thought Rachel.

‘We’re investigating a major incident and I wonder if you could look at an item of jewellery to see if you recognize it,’ Janet said.

Judith Kavanagh coughed, increasingly uneasy. ‘Yes of course,’ she said.

Janet took the ring in its sealed evidence bag and handed it to Mrs Kavanagh. The awkward smile faded from her lips, her posture altered, her shoulders sank. ‘It’s Richard’s ring, his wedding ring.’

‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘Please would you describe him for us.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘How tall is he?’ Janet said.

‘Six foot two.’

‘And he was born in 1952 so he would be sixty years old now?’

‘That’s right,’ Judith Kavanagh said.

Rachel looked around the room, saw family photos of a wedding, not Mrs Kavanagh’s, a son or daughter’s perhaps?

At Rachel’s insistence that their own wedding be simple and planned with a minimum of fuss, she and Sean had not had a professional photographer, but he had arranged for a mate of his to take photos of them before everyone got half cut and Sean had got one printed and framed.

Mrs Kavanagh’s other photos showed a couple with a baby, a young man in a gown and mortarboard. None of the man who was their victim.

‘What’s this all about?’ Mrs Kavanagh set the bag containing the ring down on a side table.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m so very sorry to tell you that the body of a man was recovered from a building in the Manorclough area of Oldham, near Manchester, on Wednesday night,’ said Janet. ‘We believe that man to be your husband. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he is dead. We will be doing all we can to make a positive identification but the man was of the same age and height as Mr Kavanagh and he was wearing that ring.’

‘Oh, my God,’ she said, colour draining from her face.

She was shocked but not overly emotional, which Rachel was thankful for. When they were sobbing their hearts out it was hard to get the information needed to push on with the investigation. It was common to have to go away and come back later. Often as not, grieving relatives would be tranqued up to the eyeballs by then and hard-pressed to remember left from right, let alone their loved one’s movements over the previous days and weeks.

‘If you feel up to it we would like to ask you some questions. Could you tell us when you last saw your husband?’ Silence. ‘Mrs Kavanagh?’ Janet prompted.

‘1999,’ she said.

‘1999?’ Janet flicked her eyes at Rachel, who pulled a face. If they’d been estranged for thirteen years they might not learn much from Mrs Kavanagh.

‘Yes, we separated. We were already separated then but that’s the last time I saw him.’

‘And where was that?’ Janet asked.

‘In Bury,’ she said, ‘we lived in Bury, we ran a shop there. Had a shop. Until …’ she sighed, fisted one hand and gripped it with the other. No wedding ring, Rachel saw. ‘… he drank it away,’ she said, ‘the business, the marriage, everything. In 1999, I told him the kids didn’t want to see him again, and neither did I. Not unless he sorted himself out.’

‘He left the family home?’ said Janet.

‘Yes, about two years before.’

‘Where was he living in 1999?’

‘In his car,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. ‘The children, they dreaded his visits.’

‘Was he violent?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health … but you said a fire?’

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.

‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’

‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.

‘Yes,’ Janet said.

‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.

‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’

‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.

‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’

‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’

‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.

‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’

‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.

‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’

‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’

‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They …’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’

That’s how it works
, Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.

‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.

She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’

‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.

‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’

‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’

‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.

‘It’ll be years old.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.

They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B&Bs.

Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He
was
shot first?’

‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the shots were fired before the fire was started. It would have been quick,’ she said.

Mrs Kavanagh nodded, her lip trembling. ‘Thank you.’

‘Can you write down contact details for your son and daughter – we’ll need to talk to them as well,’ Janet said.

‘Yes, of course.’

Mrs Kavanagh reached out for a small address book on the side table and copied out the details. She handed the note to Janet.

‘And are there any relatives on your husband’s side who might have kept in contact with him?’ Janet asked.

Judith Kavanagh shook her head. ‘His parents are dead. He had a sister, she emigrated, met a South African, a Methodist preacher. As you can imagine, Richard’s drinking went down like a lead balloon. They didn’t even exchange Christmas cards once the parents had died. What will happen now?’

‘Our inquiries will continue,’ Janet said. ‘We will confirm identity and let you know. While the investigation goes on, Richard’s body will be held by the coroner. The release of the body will be at their discretion. You appear to be next of kin so the body will be released to you when the time comes.’

‘Yes.’ Her face flickered with emotion, tears stood in her eyes but she sniffed loudly, rubbing her forearm with her other hand.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kavanagh,’ said Janet. ‘It is a very difficult situation. Is there anyone you’d like me to contact, anyone you’d like to be with?’

‘No, thank you, I’ll be all right.’

‘Thank you for your help. Please can we take a short statement from you now, confirming what you’ve told us?’

The woman nodded and cleared her throat and they began.

Karen and Barry Kavanagh still lived in Rhyl. Rachel and Janet spoke to Karen at the restaurant where she was a chef and to Barry at the local high school. Both confirmed the information that Mrs Kavanagh had given them. While each of his children were shocked to learn of Kavanagh’s death, neither of them seemed particularly upset. And why should they, Rachel thought, they’d not seen him for years, only remembered the chaos he’d caused.

She snatched the chance to smoke as they walked to the front, in search of potted shrimp. The place was more or less deserted, just a few tourists wearing raincoats and carrying brollies, but in the amusement park most of the machines stood idle, there was no queue at the ice cream van. The tide was up and the grey water empty save for some seagulls.

They stopped at a café for a cuppa and a bite to eat.

‘Staying long?’ the bloke in the café asked.

‘No, just passing through,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s quiet.’

‘The weather, and money, people watching their pennies. First thing to go, holidays and that, luxuries. Sometimes I wish they’d gag the weather forecaster. You hear it’s going to be unsettled again, you’ll not be eager to come down here.’

‘He kept the ring,’ Janet said, on their way back to the car.

‘Probably couldn’t get it off,’ said Rachel.

‘What?’

‘His fingers got swollen, his knuckles. The only reason an alkie down on his luck wouldn’t part with a piece of gold like that is because he’d have to cut his finger off to get at it.’

‘You are such a cynic,’ Janet said.

‘A realist.’

‘He could have had the ring cut off.’

‘Not easy if it’s really tight. And most jewellers won’t let someone like that over the threshold.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Janet said. ‘I think he kept it because it was all he had left to remind him of what he’d had, what he’d lost.’

Rachel stared at her. ‘Cue the violins.’

‘Harsh,’ Janet said. ‘So where has he been since Bury in 1999? What was he doing on Manorclough?’

‘Rick!’ Rachel exclaimed, making Janet jump out of her skin.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Hang on.’ Rachel looked back through her notes, eyes running across the pages, flipping paper over then back. ‘Not written it down.’

Janet tutted. ‘Naughty.’
Write it down
, a mantra the boss drummed into them.

‘Can we stop on Manorclough?’ Rachel said. ‘Something the woman at the newsagent’s said. A tramp they gave handouts to, called Rick.’

‘Brilliant,’ Janet smiled. ‘Let’s go see, shall we?’

7

The misty rain at the coast had turned to a steady downpour back in the Pennines. The shop was busy, a bunch of rowdy kids in uniform, buying sweets and fizzy drinks. The air peppered with ‘fucks’ and ‘knobs’ and ‘slags’.

‘Ten Lambert & Butler,’ one of the kids said. Liam Kelly’s eyes flicked towards Rachel.

‘Proof of age?’ he said.

‘Come on, Liam,’ the lad complained.

Liam Kelly simply shook his head. The lad wheeled round, arms raised in exasperation.

‘One twenty-nine,’ Liam Kelly said, pointing to the snacks.

‘I need some fags.’

‘Against the law, I could be prosecuted,’ Liam Kelly said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, DC Bailey?’ The kids looked at Rachel and Janet. The hubbub quietened.

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘And this is DC Scott.’

‘Aah!’ the lad who’d been refused service groaned. ‘The dibble.’

‘Cagney and Lacey,’ someone called out.

‘Is it about the murder?’ said a girl with teeth covered in braces and a narrow face like a shrew’s. ‘That fella what was shot and burned alive?’

‘If he was shot, he wouldn’t be alive, thicko,’ the first lad said.

‘Depends where they shot him,’ she snapped back, shoving the boy for good measure.

‘It is about the murder,’ Rachel said, ‘and if anyone here knows anything that might help, you can call at the mobile incident unit up the road. In complete confidence,’ she added.

‘Not very confidential if everyone can see who’s going in,’ piped up a very small boy with a brutally shaved head. He had a point.

‘You can ring in,’ Rachel said.

‘You ever shot anyone?’ This from the shrew girl.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Rachel said. ‘You’re not armed,’ said the small lad. ‘Only special units carry guns.’

‘Now we’d like a word with Mr Kelly …’ Janet said.

‘Ooh!’ a voice called out.